someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
hope...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

With a smile upon my face and a twinkle in my eye
I rode my sister's tricycle with an accomplished sigh
Traveling as fast as my three year old legs could carry me
Feeling the wind in my hair, I was filled with joyous glee.
But my happiness was short lived and came to an abrupt stop
When my sister ordered me off her bike like a seasoned cop
"It's my turn and my bike", she said with an anguished pout
Then dad whispered in my ear, "Don't worry honey, it will all work out."
The very next day, I had a new tricycle of my own
Feeling for the first time that I was almost half grown
My eyes must have shone as bright as my shiny red bike
Till I noticed the jealously on my sister's face showed her dislike
There were beads on the spokes, streamers on the handlebars
The frame work was covered with many multicolored stars
Seeing the bike through my sister's eyes, I knew I would feel the same
Mixed emotions of love and seeing her hurt set my heart aflame.
I was torn for I loved the bike but I loved my sister more
Seeing her upset was not something that I bargained for
I thought to myself, a bike is a bike and to my sister I said:
"You can have the new bike, I'll take the old one instead."
As I watched my sister jump on my new bike and ride away
The connection between us grew even stronger that day
Over her shoulder she called out, "Come on Sis lets ride."
I knew I made the right decision by the warmth I felt inside.
For: Gwendolen Rix’s “My Bicycle” contest
April 29, 2012

Sitting staring out the window for my sister to return
An overwhelming sadness, my stomach in a churn.
She a half day at school and I have not yet started
I thought the fates were cruel that we were even parted
The sun glinting off the puddles, maybe we'll play outside
Or maybe play barbies or color if she wanted to stay inside.
From school she returns and asks mom can she go outside to play
I ask can I go and she replies "no, they're my friends and you're a baby anyway"
Two 5 year old girls waiting on the porch, am I losing my best friend?
I hide my disappointment for if I cry I will hear about it to no end
Mom tells her to wear rubber boots and change out of her school dress
It was in that moment I hatched a plan that was spiteful, I confess.
She stripped down to her underwear and began to gather up her stuff
When she couldn't find one of the boots she got herself in a huff
My sister has a temper and a full blown tantrum fully erupted
She began to yell, and started throwing things, until my dad interrupted
"This will cool you down", as he put her out on the porch and locked the door
Standing outside in underwear, tears streaming, now with something to cry for.
Her friends look upon her, their faces register shock
If there was only a way that I could turn back the clock.
I stare again out the window, but this time at my beloved sister
My heart in so much pain that I'm sure it will certainly blister
I felt so bad, so dreadful, my stomach tied in one huge guilty knot
I slowly walk to the hamper to retrieve the boot from it's hiding spot.
*True story, vivid memory for a 3 yr old I know, but this affected me deeply.
I told her I hid the boot when we were teenagers, we had a great laugh.
For contest: "A Childhood Memory''

Kirstie Fonte's Blog...stirred up a memory... A repost of a mother watching her son grow up
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COLLEGE BOUND
. . . . . .
His small red car, a dent on the left rear side
is parked in our driveway,.....loaded to the max....a full tank of gas
His duffel is crammed with rock-band t-shirts, faded torn jeans
new underwear and socks, (that I insisted we buy),
and that ratty old jacket with the hole in the elbow.
Guitar, books, sports equipment, and cardboard boxes
fill the back seat of his little sedan.
On the passenger seat in front,
is a battered old shoe box tied with string.
Inside, (I've been told by his sister)...are private letters from girlfriend, Cindy
It is the same box (hence the battered state it is in)...that his sister found one day,...
tucked it under her arm, and ran from him laughing...
His long legs chased her through the kitchen and out the back door, screaming
"You're going to die for that!!"....
On this sunny, autumn day, his sister is not laughing...she is standing quietly...pacing...
He reaches over, and tussles her hair a little, and she leans against his chest for a minute,
then steps away, and looks at me with solemn eyes...
He and his father share a hug and an affectionate pat on the back
I stand there watching them, on that dreaded concrete driveway...
My eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but I'm determined not to cry
I knew this day was coming, we had planned to be cheerful....
My emotions are betraying me now....but I will send him off with a smile.
I promised him and I will !
A neighbor is driving by, as if it's just another ordinary day, and waves.
We all wave back, and it breaks the somber spell for a moment.
I hand him the care box I made....laundry soap, toothpaste
candy, energy bars, his favorite home made oatmeal cookies.
Hugs, extra tight. One more....no tears....Oh, God, Help me no tears!!
"Be sure to call when you get there." Drive carefully....Love you"
Love you

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims.
When hot lead tears the flesh of a 14 year old girl,
ripping through her skull,
leaving her to bleed out and die,
does Allah not recoil in horror,
to see His child whimper,
to see His daughter cry.
Where is the indignation,
the anger that often boils over and manifests itself as flags and books and videos are burnt in mass orgies of hollow piety,
where are the voices that scream so loud,
that denounce all but their own creed,
where are the men, the impotent men who crave for nothing more than their fascist egos to feed,
where are the voices that so loudly proclaim,
enemies here and enemies there, always quick to condemn,
where are those voices when the enemy walks amongst them.
14 year old Malala Yousafzai was shot in cold blood,
her crime?
Advocating the rights of girls to an education.
Shame on you, men of bigotry and men of cowardice.
Shame on you, silent and mute accomplices in this carnage.
Shame on me,
for my inaction,
Shame on us all,
who proclaim lofty ideals,
yet are conspicuously silent,
when a 14 year old girl is shot in the head,
by fascist fundamentalist bigots who only worship bullets of hot lead.
Not in my name!
Not in my name,
shall the cowardly men rain down abuse,
Not in my name,
shall the bigoted men light the communalistic fuse,
Not in my name,
shall Malala Yousafzai be shot in the head,
left to bleed out,
while countless mothers' tears are shed,
not in my name,
shall religious murderers,
be left to wander free,
not in my name,
for I dare all believers to open their eyes,
to see!
To see,
the innocence of a 14 year old girl,
wanting only an education,
as the men of the cloth,
prance around with their pathetic self-righteous indignation.
I write this today,
the anger raging in my veins,
yet I fear,
that I shall write more of this,
unless we stand up and say 'no more',
I fear that I shall be writing this again,
until we all,
reclaim the true principles of humaneness,
until we silence the voices of bigotry,
of rage,
of fanatical insanity,
I fear I shall be writing this again,
and,
until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,
I shall continue to say,
NOT IN MY NAME!
Or else I shall have nothing,
but my unending shame.
(for Malala Yousafzai, 14 years old, in a critical condition after being shot in the head by the Pakistani Taliban, for her work as a young activist advocating the rights of girls to attend school)

When I was three my parents gave a special gift to me
Small and pudgy, wrapped up so tight
So precious, this gift, it was love at first sight
A gift I would treasure for the rest of my life
She touched my hand and smiled at me
I knew in that moment always together we would be
Best friends forever, my sister and me
Her first day of school our mum looked at me
Why put your boots on, she asked curiously
Anyone touches my sister they answer to me
Always by her side in case she needed me
Never did she stray too far in case I needed she
In that moment anyone could see, always together we would be
Best friends forever, my sister and me
Together we laughed, suffered and cried
Holding her hand as her child is born
Losses of love, together we mourn
In times of sorrow her tears I wipe away
At my weakest moment she helps me to my feet
Forever, through these moments, together we be
Best friends forever, my sister and me
In old age I wonder what we will be
Two crazy old ladies sitting under a tree
In our rocking chairs with cats in our laps
Laughing and talking of the places we have been
Every story beginning with remember when we?
No story ending, life one big adventure for you and me
All these moments to cherish when you and I made we
My best friend and my sister, forever you will be

The old men defile the little girls
their lurid charm stabs the fragile screen of innocence and ignorance
The fathers are traveled or dead or down, or never known
The mothers weep, hands in air hoping to grab something helpful
The young girls, like rat to hawk become clutched by predatory hands
The old men squeal, cackle, and trumpet their victories
vile names for the captured,the newly shamed are shouted in complete revelry
The tricked lost their chance at being children
This calls for a smile from the most sinister observer

His small red car, a dent on the left rear side,
is parked in our driveway, all loaded, a full tank of gas.
His duffel is crammed with rock-band t-shirts, faded torn jeans,
new underwear and socks, (that I insisted we buy),
and that ratty old jacket with the hole in the elbow.
Guitar, books, sports equipment, and cardboard boxes
filling the back seat of his little sedan.
On the passenger seat in front,
is a battered old shoe box tied with string.
Those are private letters from girlfriend, Cindy.
(Oh yes!...The same box, that his sister found one day,
when she tucked it under her arm and ran from him laughing.
His long legs chased her through the house, screaming, ...
"You're going to die for that!!!!")
But...that was on another fall day.... A day that now seems forever ago....
While today was silently sleeping...
On this sunny, autumn day, his sister is quiet, she is not laughing.
He and his father share a hug and an affectionate pat on the back.
I stand back, watching them, on that dreaded, concrete driveway.
The trees rustle, and someone's lawnmower is humming
A neighbor is driving by, as if it's just another ordinary day.
I give him the care box I made...laundry soap, toothpaste,
candy, energy bars, his favorite home made oatmeal cookies.
Hugs, extra tight. One more, and then another.....
(Hold it in!....Hold it in!....I can do this!....)
"Be sure to call when you get there. Drive carefully. Love you."
Love you
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Submitted for Debbie's "Emote" contest....(sadness/love)

A Victim of Slander
By Elton Camp
An old lady once lived in the forest so deep
On day she was lying in her bed half-asleep
Then there came a noise she’d heard before
People outside, but not knocking at the door
“Oh, Gretel, this cottage should taste so good.”
He’d found it was made of sweets, not wood
Hansel and his sister then tore the house apart
But to do that without asking wasn’t very smart
“It’s kids damaging my little house some more.
Several times I’ve had to put up with that before.”
The crone hobbled to the door to ask ‘em inside
Not even once for vandalism did she them deride
Although their conduct had been extremely rude,
She sat them at her table and gave them some food
So to Hansel she gave his own private little room
Gretel became her housekeeper with a straw broom
On Hansel’s health the woman checked each day
And checked to see how much the boy did weigh
But despite all the things that for them she did do,
They ended up giving reason her kindness to rue
As if damaging her house wasn’t quite bad enough,
From her visitors there came even much worse stuff
And although the brother and sister looked very cute,
The helpless old woman they proceeded to execute
So if lost and homeless children show up at your door,
It doesn’t even pay to try to help them out anymore
As with that old lady, your reputation they may besmirch
It’s better that you play it safe and leave them in the lurch

We don't see it in our everyday lives.
Its not one of our husbands or wives.
We don't think about it on our daily drives.
I'm here to tell you about the few who survives.
I'm not talking about cancer or some disease.
Its about something that goes on in our borders and over seas.
We need to wake up and walk out of our caves,
because I'm talking about human trafficking and human slaves.
I know its not something you want to talk about,
but its here and all around, no doubt.
Everything I write in this poem is nothing but true.
It is as hard to write as it is to read, I assure you.
In several countries, girls are sent out on a date.
They are sent out at the young age of eight.
No one around to hear their cries in their vicinity.
When a forty year old man steals her virginity.
These girls are ripped from their homes and families and sold.
They can never talk about it, so their stories go untold.
It is disgusting to write this and talk about this crime,
but in some countries, it costs a quarter to sleep with a girl for her first time.
Then with no anesthesia and no pain medication, she sees a surgeon.
She is sown back up and sold to another nation, as a virgin.
Now this next story was told to me in session and is perturbing.
I am a counselor and when she told it to me, I even found it disturbing.
An 11 year old girl and her 13 year old sister were sold as objects.
They were sold for their bodies and for sex.
When the 13 year old was ordered to go with a man to bed,
she refused, and her 11 year old sister saw her get shot in the head.
Sadly, that isn't the worst thing I've been told.
But these girls, always close to my heart is where I hold.
I wrote this so you people can open up your eyes.
So you people know whats going on, and so you can hear, the unheard cries.

Friends till the end
My friend ship I always lend
When you cried I was there
I tried to whipe away every tear
Even when you werent there for me
I let it be
Im tired of holding back the unsaid
I can not get away from this dread
I can not believe who you have become
Your life you say has come undone
But really your life has just begun
The problems you have are what you make
And you make your own heart ache
You say how your heart broken
Your heart has yet to have spoken
You think you love someone
Then you run away and say your done
Its the same every time
Its the same old line
Again and again you pull it
This you have to admit
You are codependant
It leaves you distant
When you arent with them
You talk constantly about them or want them
You always think your so bad
Its rather sad
You cant keep doing this
Its the old you we miss
We miss the sober
We miss the old Amber
I miss my old sister